However, I have got a great deal of enjoyment out of ancient Rome—­papal Rome is too brutally pagan (and in the worst possible taste too) for me.

[To his daughter, Mrs. Roller.]

January 11, 1885.

We have now had nearly three weeks in Rome.  I am sick of churches, galleries, and museums, and meanly make M—­ go and see them and tell me about them.  As we are one flesh, it is just the same as if I had seen them.

Since the time of Constantine there has been nothing but tawdry rubbish in the shape of architecture [For his appreciation of the great dome of the Pantheon, see below.]—­the hopeless bad taste of the Papists is a source of continual gratification to me as a good Protestant (and something more).  As for the skies, they are as changeable as those of England—­the only advantage is the absence of frost and snow—­(raining cats and dogs this Sunday morning).

But down to the time of Constantine, Rome is endlessly interesting, and if I were well I should like to spend some months in exploring it.  As it is, I do very little, though I have contrived to pick up all I want to know about pagan Rome and the Catacombs, which last are my especial weakness.

My master and physician is bothered a good deal with eczema—­otherwise very lively.  All the chief collections in Rome are provided with a pair of her spectacles, which she leaves behind.  Several new opticians’ shops are set up on the strength of the purchases in this line she is necessitated to make.

I want to be back at work, but I am horribly afraid I should be no good yet.  We are thinking of going to Florence at the end of this week to see what the drier and colder air there will do.

With our dear love to you all—­we are wae for a sight of you.

Ever your loving father,

T.H.  Huxley.

Hotel Victoria, Via dei due Macelli, January 16, 1885.

My dear Foster,

It seems to me that I am giving my friends a world of trouble...

I have had a bad week of it, and the night before last was under the impression that I was about to succumb shortly to a complication of maladies, and moreover, that a wooden box that my wife had just had made would cost thousands of pounds in the way of payment for extra luggage before we reached home.  I do not know which hypochondriacal possession was the most depressing.  I can laugh at it now, but I really was extraordinarily weak and ill.

We had made up our minds to bolt from Rome to Florence at once, when I suddenly got better, and to-day am all right.  So as we hear of snow at Florence we shall stop where we are.  It has been raining cats and dogs here, and the Tiber rose 40 feet and inundated the low grounds.  But “cantabit elevatus”; it can’t touch us, and at any rate the streets are washed clean.

The climate is mild here.  We have a capital room and all the sunshine that is to be had, plus a good fire when needful, and at worst one can always get a breezy walk on the Pincio hard by.